


Footprints Through the Rosemary

by indecentpause



Category: Original Work
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, M/M, Mid 1990s, Nightmares, POV Second Person, Past Relationships, Past Suicide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Setting - England
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 18:38:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15225447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indecentpause/pseuds/indecentpause
Summary: After Alex’s suicide, Riley falls into a pattern of self-destruction that peppers his depression with brief moments of artificial sunshine. He doesn’t talk about his past, even to his friends, his brother, his on again off again boyfriend (maybe, maybe not; he can’t do that to Alex so fast).But the thing about trauma is that it refuses to be ignored.





	1. Chapter 1

_June 1994, City of Westminster, England._

 

**One.**

The café is warm, smelling of coffee and chocolate and fresh baked scones and biscuits, a nice respite from the cold, wet streets outside. The queue is almost out the door, business suits and rebel teens alike all trying to flee the summer rain that never seems to stop. You gaze out at the grey streets, your rain mussed red-blond hair falling haphazardly around your thin face. You cross your eyes, looking up at the hair falling over your forehead, and you purse your lips, trying to blow it out of your eyes. It’s been five months since you cut your hair -- not since the week before Alex killed himself. Alex had always pouted whenever you said you needed a haircut. He preferred it long and messy.

_I like having something to hold onto when I kiss you_ , he’d say. _Really, Ry, short hair just doesn’t work on you._

And Riley, true to his wishes, you haven’t cut your hair since.

It’s almost ridiculous how long it’s getting. You can pull it back into a ponytail and people have started mistaking you for a woman when they see you from behind. Your current… not boyfriend, really -- you can’t do that to Alex, you can’t move on that fast -- and not lover, because you’ve never slept together, you never will…

Beau always makes fun of you for it, but you can’t bring yourself to care. He doesn’t understand and you don’t want him to.

Since the day you met him, you’ve known how cliché you are, falling for a guy like Beau. It’s not love, it’s not even lust, it’s just the need for a connection and to feel like someone is there, even if that someone doesn’t care about anything beyond the next party, the next trick, the next high. His skin is pale to the point of sickliness, almost paste-colored, with wild dirty blond hair and bright gold-green eyes over a slightly too-big nose, lanky limbs and a too-thin body he still hasn’t grown into even at nineteen years old and a grin that very much reminds you of a wildcat toying with a rabbit because really, that’s exactly what Beau is on nights like this -- the pallid, clammy kind of night that drives people to the clubs and the raves and the parties of the underground because the only thing that can quell the misery is loud music or a strong hit or a good fuck, whatever happens to be cheapest that week. You’re not there just yet, putting it off for a mug of black coffee and a box of bourbons, but within two hours, you will be. You always are.

_I don’t know how you can drink that stuff straight black. It’s not right. It needs sugar, at the very least._

You sigh and close your eyes, pushing the coffee away. Without opening them again, you take another bourbon from the box and twist it open, licking out the chocolate cream and discarding the biscuit parts on a plate beside you, a bad habit you’ve had since childhood. Your mother always scolded you for that, but she stopped caring what you do and who you’re with when you came out two years ago and your older brother Daryl moved to the States. Rarely are you home anymore, crashing at Beau’s flat or with random people you meet when you go out.

You know what she tells her friends, that her son is a batty boy and a no good slut, probably has HIV if it’s not AIDS already, or at least Hep C, even though you’ve never slept with anyone and after what you did before you met Alex and again after he killed himself, you know you never will. Only two people have ever and will ever see the scars, and if that means staying a virgin the rest of your life, fine. It doesn’t matter. Nothing much matters anymore, but especially not something as trivial as sex.

The door opens and you open your eyes, slowly turning toward the sound. Beau walks in, all hips and legs and leather and mesh as he weaves his way through the crowd with catlike movements. He grins at you in greeting. You nod once, looking warily at the coffee mug before giving in and taking another sip as Beau jumps onto the table. He plants his feet on either side of you, legs spread oh-so-suggestively, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Bonjour, mon tante préféré,” Beau grins, picking up a bourbon and twisting it open, licking the filling out just as you always do, but oozing sex, certainly not innocent like you. “’Ow is my favorite AC/DC this dank June evening?”

_Even your name is cliché_ , you think, gazing up at him dispassionately. _Handsome, beautiful… which you are in your own rough, unconventional way._

You shrug, disinterested. “I fucking hate London,” you say, moving your gaze from Beau and back to the dark streets again. “It rains too bloody much.” You used to love London, you used to love the rain, but now the rain brings back memories and while those memories are happy ones, it still hurts too damn much because you know you can never have those times back. It had rained on Alex’s sixteenth birthday. You’d danced with each other and spun in circles laughing like children. You still remember Alex’s rain-slicked skin under your fingertips and how bright the smile in his eyes was. You’ll never be able to forget, and as painful as remembering is, you don’t _want_ to forget. Then he would really be gone.

Beau tisks softly, a mocking pout painted on his lips. “Oh, aux yeux tristes créature. Come, come, let’s leave this place and go somewhere more fun, yes?”

“Fine,” you murmur. Just like every other night.

“You do not sound very excited about that,” Beau says, slipping into your lap and rubbing up against you. Your eyes slip closed at the feel of his hot tongue against your neck, your hands settle on his hips.

“Tell me what can I do to make it exciting,” he murmurs, slowly rolling his hips against yours, smirking into your skin. “Donne-moi ton foutre,” he whispers, nipping at one of the studs in your ear.

“No,” you whisper back. You shove him off you and onto the bench. Beau giggles wickedly, his legs still spread as he leans against the café window, running his tongue over his lips.

“No?”

“No.” You stand, picking up your jacket and pointedly ignoring the stares and whispers that have started singing through the café. “You always have to cock it up by trying to turn it into sex, don’t you.”

Beau grins and opens his mouth as you close your eyes. “Don’t say anything about my word choice.”

Beau closes his mouth again.

“Let’s go.”

“You are very strange, Riley Ackart,” Beau sighs, a sultry pout at his lips. “You dress the way you do and expect me to not want you? You are either very cruel, very stupid, or very mad. I sometimes cannot tell which.”

It’s a strange psychological thing, you’re sure. Beau is right. You dress for attention, your clothing and hair and makeup dolled up just so, black and red bondage pants laced with chains and handcuffs, a black mesh half-shirt with nothing underneath, baring a toned stomach and half-heartedly covering your chest, showing the world the piercing in your left nipple. Your eyes done up in black and red, making the sharp green stand out more than usual. Perhaps it’s because you want the world to feel how you feel -- you want everyone you meet to know how painful it is to want something they can never have. A slightly emotional sadomasochistic attitude resulting from a case of severe maladjustment caused by a severely traumatic experience.

Maybe if you hadn’t dropped out of college, you’d have gone on to study psychology at University.

As it is, the closest you’ll probably get to that degree is becoming a case study in a clinic someday.

With a soft huff, Beau jumps onto the table and back down to the floor, weaving his fingers with yours and leading you toward the door. “We are going to a new club tonight,” he says. “A friend of mine from Bristol, she is a DJ and is playing there tonight. ‘Er music is very sexy, perfect for dancing. Trip-‘op, I believe you call it ‘ere.”

You step outside into the dreary, rainy night. Beau smiles slyly, pulling a small blue pill out of his pocket and sticking his tongue out at you. He pops the pill in his mouth and pulls you into a searing kiss. Tongues tangle and the pill trades mouths and Beau places a tender lick at your lips when he pulls back. You smirk -- you don’t smile, you never smile when you’re sober -- and swallow, ignoring the bitter taste left lingering on your tongue. The worse the taste, the better the high. Beau grins and presses up against you, whispering in your ear, “Blue butterfly biscuits. Your favorite. For free, if you promise to dance with me tonight. Completely pure -- I tested them myself.”

“Of course,” you whisper back. You press a soft kiss to the side of his neck and your hands wander down to his hips. When you pull away, you drape your jacket over Beau’s shoulders and say, “Here. You’ll freeze your skinny arse if you walk around in weather like this dressed like that.”

“You are very strange, Riley Ackart,” Beau whispers, pulling back just slightly, golden-green eyes locked with yours. “Sometimes you act as if you want me and others you act as if you do not care at all. I do not understand ‘ow you think.”

_I don’t understand the way I think, either. I don’t understand myself at all._

“Friendship is strange like that, doll,” you murmur instead. “Come on. Let’s go to this club of yours.”

“Oui.” Beau nips playfully at your ear, then pulls back with a smile, popping another blue pill into his mouth and swallowing, this time. “It is just a quick bus ride and a short walk from there. We will be there in twenty minutes.”

 

**Two.**

The ecstasy kicked in about twenty minutes ago. The moment you stepped into the club, Beau disappeared into the crowd and left you to wander. You’re dancing with a nameless, faceless woman -- Italian is your guess, by the skin and bone structure, probably in her early twenties. Hands and mouths wander, pressing and brushing against hips and throats and suddenly the connection is broken when a hand on your wrist pulls you away and against another familiar body.

“You said you would dance with me tonight,” Beau says. You think you can hear jealousy in his voice, but it must be the drugs because why would Beau be jealous of something like that when he always does the same? But dancing with Beau is better than dancing with some nameless stranger, because you know each other, you know each other’s soft spots and all the right places to touch when you want to hear a moan or a scream, even though it’s meaningless and even though it can only go so far. Beau presses up against you, his back against your front and his arm around your neck. “You said you would dance with me,” he repeats. “So dance with me.”

You don’t respond in words, instead sliding one hand up Beau’s shirt to rest on his stomach, the other settling high on his right thigh and squeezing softly, intimately, slowly pulling him back against you as you lick his neck. He moans softly and pushes into you, tilting his head back to brush his lips against your jaw. A wave of heat shoots through your body and you moan in reply and you know it’s because of the E, that you wouldn’t be able to dance with anyone, even Beau, like this if you were sober. But it doesn’t matter that you’re off your face because when you are, you can forget how much living hurts.

_Alex would kill me if he saw my like this._ You push the thought away by pulling Beau even closer, smiling when he gasps softly. Beau is an attention whore and you aren’t sure how much of it is real and how much is an act but you don’t care right now, because you won’t let yourself think, just feel. Thinking hurts too much. So does feeling, most of the time, but not times like this. It’s simple, it’s easy, it’s entirely drug-induced but even so, at the time, it’s real.

Bodies twisting with the music, calm and languid and fluidly controlled like the break beats, cool piano, and lilting vocals of the track Beau’s friend is playing: DJ Napalm, a fitting handle for the mixer of tracks that start cool and collected before exploding into melody and passion.

 

**Three.**

Eventually you both end up at the side of the club, Beau pressed up against a wall with his hands in your back pockets, hips pressed against hips and mouth’s wandering across necks and ears and lips. Beau’s fingers brush against that soft spot behind your ear and you moan softly, nipping at his neck as he wraps his leg around you and pulls you closer. Touches grow from gentle and controlled to grasping and desperate and twin gasps come from two sets of lips when Beau grinds his hips against yours.

It’s times like these when you almost think you could want more out of your relationship with Beau, something more than the strange friendship you have -- not a boyfriend, you’re not ready for that, but a lover, perhaps -- but you can’t let yourself go that far because once you take that step, you can’t take it back. It’s unfair to Beau but you don’t know what else to do. You need to feel that connection. You need to feel close to someone, at least physically if it can’t be emotionally.

 

**Four**.

You lost track of time soon after you got to the club, but you assume it’s been about eight hours since the E kicked in. The club is too loud and too bright and you have a bit of a headache, but Beau was right, the pill was pure so the crash isn’t all that bad. Beau lies nestled in your lap, his head resting in the crook of your neck, curled up against you in a dark corner. The embrace is strangely innocent -- no wandering hands or mouths, no innuendos, just a misplaced quiet among the pounding music.

“Let’s go outside,” you murmur in Beau’s ear. “I need to get some air.”

“Oui,” Beau says, pressing a chaste kiss to your neck before slowly standing up, wrapping the jacket he still hasn’t given back tighter around his narrow shoulders.

It’s cold outside, but you don’t ask Beau to give your jacket back. Sitting on the sidewalk under a dark, drizzling sky, you both look like lost cats caught in the rain when their owner decided he didn’t want them anymore. Your eye makeup is smudged and Beau’s hair has gone puffy from the humidity and more than anything, you’d rather be sleeping right now, but you’re still a bit too high yet not high enough to enjoy your shifted states of consciousness. You’re leaning back on the sidewalk on your elbows, gazing up at the sky and the four stars you can see peeking out from behind the clouds.

_It’s comforting, isn’t it? That the stars are up there …even after we die, after everyone we know dies, the stars will still be up there, watching everybody, keeping the moon company at night. They’ll always be there. Isn’t that comforting?_

With a soft, sad sigh, you close your eyes.

_If you were a star, and the star next to you fell, how would you feel? It would make you think twice about your life. Because what if you fell next time, you know?_

Beau crawls into your lap and curls up against you, wrapping his arms about your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your lips. You open your eyes but don’t kiss him back.

“What is wrong, mon ami?” Beau asks.

“You wouldn’t understand,” you murmur. _I have fallen, Alex. But this time I don’t have you to pick me back up again. I’m so sorry._

Beau chastely kisses your lips again. “That is what you always say, that I would not understand. But ‘ow do you know if you do not try to talk to me about it?”

“It’s better to not talk about some things,” you whisper, pulling Beau closer and trailing kisses from his neck to his lips.

_I’m so sorry._

There are no more words after that.

 

**Five.**

Thirty minutes later, your fourth cigarette is almost out. You’re usually not one for chain smoking, but today has been more stressful than most days and you need something to calm the crash from the E, even something as simple as nicotine. Heavy bass and break beats sift through the cracks in the wall of the club behind you, the soundtrack to the disillusionment of two misplaced teenagers.

“Cigarettes are disgusting.” Beau wrinkles his nose at you, sliding farther away. “I ‘ate the way they smell.”

You’ve always liked the way Beau pronounces ‘hate’ -- the way he drops the ‘h,’ like he does with most words starting with that letter. It makes the world feel less harsh.

“If you ‘ave to smoke something, can you not at least make it weed? At least it does not smell so awful.”

Alex would have said the same thing, had you smoked when he was alive. He’d always hated the smell of cigarettes, probably because his father had smoked. Just that thought is almost enough to make you quit, even at shaky times like this, but the addiction is stronger than any feelings of guilt.

“I know,” you say, “but addiction is like that. I’m sure you understand.”

Beau ‘humphs’ but says nothing more.

A few minutes later, the cigarette is almost out and you drop it to the pavement. You don’t bother stepping on it -- the street is wet enough to keep anything from catching fire. A car passes by and the driver slows down, whether to keep from kicking up water at you or to get a closer look, you’re not sure, but it doesn’t matter, anyway. You reach for the pack in your pocket but Beau slaps your hand away.

“No,” he says. “If you take out another cigarette, I will leave and you can find somewhere else to stay tonight. Four in a row is more than enough. I do not want you in my bed smelling like smoke.”

“I’ll shower first,” you half-heartedly argue, but your hand stays away from your pocket.

“Will you let me join you?” Beau asks with a grin. He moves a bit closer and nips at your neck.

_I wouldn’t even let Alex until we’d known each other for five years._ “No,” you say. “You know that. Why do you bother asking?”

“Because I am ‘oping one day you will change your mind,” Beau says softly, leaning his head against your shoulder.

“Everything comes back to sex with you, doesn’t it.”

He doesn’t answer. You’re both silent a few minutes until he murmurs, “Let’s go ‘ome.”

 

**Six.**

The underground station is nearly empty. It’s four in the morning, too late for the average traveler and too early for the businessmen to start their commute. The trains won’t start running for a half-hour and yours won’t come until fifteen minutes after that, but the twenty-four hour buses don’t run in the area of Beau’s flat, so you haven’t any choice but to wait for the tube to get home. Beau sits curled up beside you, one leg slung lazily over yours, his head resting against your shoulder and his arms wrapped around your neck. Your hand rests protectively on his hip, your face pressed into messy blond hair as you try to stay awake so you don’t miss your train. Your jacket is still draped over Beau’s shoulders. A sleepy mumble falls from his lips and he shivers, crawling into your lap and trying to feed off your body heat.

“Are you awake?” you ask, voice soft with sleepiness.

“Oui. Is the train ‘ere yet?”

You pull out the watch you always keep in your pocket and never wear on your wrist. “Not for forty-three minutes,” you say. You slip the watch back into your pocket. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you when we need to go.”

“I do not want to leave you awake by yourself,” Beau mumbles, yawning and burying his face in your neck.

“It’s fine,” you say, pressing a kiss against his jacket-covered shoulder. You slide your hand from Beau’s side beneath the jacket and rest your palm at the small of his back, cool skin beneath the thin black fabric. With a soft shiver and a quiet purr, Beau moves even closer, wrapping his arms around you and chastely kissing you just below your ear.

“Si je pouvais dire combien j'aime te tenir dans mes bras,” he murmurs. “Je voudrais que tu sois tout à moi.”

“What? I only caught half of that. You’re talking too quietly.”

“It is not important,” Beau sighs. “You would not wish to know, anyway.”

You roll your eyes. Most likely something about sex again. “Go to sleep,” you say. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.”

 

**Seven.**

Beau’s fridge is nearly empty. Some leftover Indian takeaway sits on an otherwise empty shelf and a half a jug of milk and a nearly empty carton of orange juice sit in the door. A bit of brie cheese, two apples, and a few half jars of jam are scattered amongst the shelves. There’s half a loaf of bread, a box of Coco Shreddies, a quarter bag of crisps, and a few tins of vegetables and beans in the cupboard. You want to cook something, you want a real meal after living off junk food and takeaway for three weeks, but Beau has no ingredients so you settle for a cheese and apple sandwich.

The bread is moldy.

You throw it out and eat the takeaway, instead.

 

**Eight.**

You never know what to do with yourself when you have a day off work. From 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 in the afternoon you laze about the dark apartment -- it’s a bit past noon but the sunlight is blocked by the curtains over the windows. Beau is sleeping and you don’t want to wake him. You’re bored and want someone to talk to, but waking Beau up before 2:00 is asking him to have a bitch. Quietly, you make your way back to Beau’s room and open the closet door, pulling out a shirt, some trousers, and a pair of boxers from the chest of drawers Beau lets you keep your clothes in. You change in the bathroom, not wanting to risk Beau waking up and seeing you nude. After you drop your sleep clothes in a rumpled pile by the door, you find your combat boots and decide to brave the light and go out for a walk.

You need to buy a new pack of cigarettes, anyway. You smoked all but one last night.

Maybe while you’re out you’ll buy some decent food.

You take the lift down to the ground floor and your eyes narrow when you open the door, trying to calm the glare of the sunlight reflecting off the pavement and up to and back off the clouds. An umbrella hangs loosely from your hand, swaying in time with your steps as you walk to the small grocery shop on the corner, pausing at the entrance and gazing inside. Thoughtfully, you chew on the inside of your lower lip before you sigh softly and enter, picking up a basket and walking through the aisles, grabbing a few things here and there. Eggs, more bread, butter, small bags of flour and sugar, salt and baking soda and powder, a small bottle of vanilla essence and some cinnamon. A lemon, some chicken, rice, cabbage and carrots, sausage and potatoes. You pick up a few Cadburys Dairy Milk bars and a couple of bags of Smarties, because they’re Beau’s favorites and you just got paid. You pause when your eyes catch the biscuits the familiar red plaid of the Walker’s shortbread tin. Those had been Alex’s favorite. Slowly you make your way toward the shelf, picking up a box of shortbread triangles and running your fingers across the thin plastic covering cool metal.

_These biscuits are amazing. I can’t believe you bought them just for me._

_Just because you’re adorable when you nibble on them like that._

Very softly, you touch your fingers to your lips. Alex had always insisted on sharing. Kisses always followed. When you close your eyes you can almost fool yourself into thinking your fingers are Alex’s fingers, brushing across your lips after feeding you a small piece of shortbread. You open your eyes and blink away the tears. Your gaze shifts from the tin to the basket to the shelf and back again, and hesitantly you put the tin back on the shelf. You take a step away and turn, but pause for a moment, then turn back around, pick it back up, and place it in your basket beside the chocolates. Your fingers linger on the package for a moment before you make your way to the till. You pay no attention to the total -- it could be ten quid or a hundred -- simply hand over your credit card when prompted for payment, nodding in reply to the clerk’s “Have a nice day.”

 

**Nine.**

You keep your eyes trained on the ground the short walk back to Beau’s flat, only looking up when you get inside the building and to the lift. A sign hangs on the doors.

_Out of Service._

You sigh -- _of course_ \-- and take the stairs up to the seventh floor, dropping the bags on the kitchen counter when you get inside the still dark flat. A few minutes after you finish putting the groceries away, Beau shuffles out of the bedroom wearing nothing but a pair of grey sleep pants and one green sock, one blue one.

“You didn’t have any food, so I bought some,” you say. You don’t move your position from the couch, your gaze from the wall. “I was thinking of cooking something later tonight, maybe.”

“It is not even 1:00 yet,” Beau pouts. “I do not know why I am awake.”

_You’re welcome_. You glance over at Beau when he collapses onto the couch, flopping against you. He wraps his arms around yours, taking your hand and playing with your fingers.

“I am almost two years older than you, yet you are so much bigger than I am,” he says, lifting your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the palm.

“You just haven’t grown into yourself yet, I guess,” you say, looking back at the wall.

“I am nineteen, Riley,” Beau huffs. “If I ‘ave not grown into myself yet, when will I do so?”

“You’re just petite, I guess.”

“I ‘ate being called that.” Beau sticks his tongue out in annoyance. “It makes me feel like a little girl.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you’d make a decent drag queen.” It’s meant to be lightly teasing, but your voice comes out blank.

“La ferme,” Beau hisses. He bites your hand in reprimand.

Alex would have come up with a witty comeback. He’d have laughed and hit your shoulder and pretended to pout until you kissed the annoyance out of him.

“Sorry,” you say.

Beau mutters something under his breath in French, only a few words loud enough for you to catch.

“What?” you ask.

“It is nothing.”

“And you always bitch when I don’t talk to you.”

“You would not care anyway, just like I ‘would not understand anyway,’” Beau mutters.

You pull your hand away from his and drop it in your lap. “I bought some chocolate for you. It’s on the kitchen counter, if you want it.”

Beau goes silent, his eyes wide with surprise. When he speaks a minute later, his voice is soft, slightly disbelieving. “You bought chocolate for me?”

“Yes. It’s in the kitchen on the counter. Three Cadburys bars and two bags of Smarties.”

“Oh…” Beau gently touches the bite mark on your hand, murmuring a soft apology in French. You don’t respond, don’t look at him. You keep your gaze fixed on the wall.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. You shrug, your weight sinking further into the couch as he stands. Soft footsteps pad across the carpet and the sound shifts to soft slaps when Beau reaches the tile, sounds of the refrigerator and cupboard doors opening and bags and boxes being moved about, then paper and foil slowly tearing and the soft snap of breaking chocolate. A box being picked up.

“And you brought shortbread, also?” Beau asks.

“That’s not for you,” you snap. “Put it back.”

Metal gently placed on the tile countertop. Slapping footsteps change back to padded ones and the couch to your left sinks as he sits back down beside you.

“Riley,” he says.

“Hm.”

He sighs and shoves your shoulder. “Look at me.”

You do. “What.”

He hands you a square of chocolate. “’Ere.”

You look at it a few moments before you take it. It’s melted a bit where Beau held it. You place it on your tongue, licking the residue off your fingers and letting the chocolate melt in your mouth. “Thanks,” you say.

You sit in silence as Beau finishes the chocolate and for some time after.

“I am going to get dressed,” he finally says, standing and padding back to the bedroom. He leaves the door open, maybe in the hope that you’ll look in on him, but knowing you won’t bother.

When he comes back into the living room, he’s an entirely different man. He’s no longer the soft-spoken, sleep-subdued Beau of fifteen minutes ago, now all confidence and cockiness, the best of the best and ready to fight anyone who dares disagree. Tight black jeans crawl up long, long legs, and knee high leather boots covered in buckles and zippers lift him three inches above his normal height. A black dog collar is tightly wrapped around his neck, a chain linking it to his silver-studded belt. His upper body is barely covered with a shimmery blue shirt with more tears than fabric and a black mesh shirt beneath. His nails and eyes are painted blue and pale pink lip gloss shines on his mouth.

“Where are you going dressed like that?” you ask, raising a skeptical eyebrow. You’re sure you know the answer, but you hope you’re wrong this time. “There won’t be any parties for hours.”

“Something ‘as to pay for the parties, Riley,” Beau says. “Something ‘as to pay for the drugs.”

You close your eyes and angle your face away. “I have money, Beau. You don’t need to --”

“I will not take your money, Riley. I will work for what I want.”

“Like that?” You open your eyes again, disappointed emerald met with fiery golden-green.

“I am not like you, Riley,” Beau says. “You, you are ‘appy being celibate. You do not need to feel connected to others. I need that.”

“Even if it doesn’t mean anything? Beau none of them care about you --”

“You think I don’t know that?” Beau interrupts. “If nobody I am going to be with cares anyway, I may as well be paid for my time. I cannot ‘ave what I want, so will settle for what I can get.”

“What you want? What are you talking about?” You ask even though you know the answer -- but even though it hurts you both, it’s easier to pretend you don’t.

Beau smiles a soft, disappointed, slightly pitying smile as he plants a foot beside your leg, leaning down and tilting your chin up, breathing against your lips. “You are an idiot,” he says gently. “Thank you for the chocolate, amoureux. It was very kind of you to think of me. I will see you tonight. There is going to be a rave in Brent at midnight. I do not ‘ave all the details, but I will when I come home. I will be back by nine.” With a soft smile, he gently kisses you, tongue darting out briefly, almost hesitantly, before he pulls away. “Adieu, chou.” With a coquettish wink and a wave, Beau turns away and saunters out the door.

You want to grab his tiny wrist and jerk him back inside, scream at him until he realizes he’s above selling his body for drug money and that he’s so much better than everyone he sleeps with, that he needs someone who’ll love him and take care of him rather than discarding him like a worn rag doll when the night is over. But you don’t. You watch him leave, letting your eyes readjust to the dark when Beau closes the door behind him. It breaks your heart to think of Beau as a whore, but that’s what he is, a whore who will sell himself out to the richest or the best connected, regardless of whether they’ll treat him with the care he deserves. But you don’t do anything about it. You have no right to judge Beau when you’ve made just as many mistakes.

When you look down on the table, you see three squares of chocolate left on the foil wrapper placed in the shape of a heart.

“I _am_ an idiot,” you mutter, and you stand and grab your umbrella and the spare key, slamming and locking the door behind you and trudging down the stairs.

You need a walk to clear your head.

 

**Ten**.

You may have been walking for two minutes or two hours. The only reason you know it hasn’t been two days is because the sun hasn’t set and risen again. Aimlessly, you wander the City of Westminster, scoffing at the tourists on Baker Street -- _it’s a phony address, you stupid gits_ \-- hurrying past the Aldwych tube station -- _Let’s go to the tube station and grab a random train without looking at a map and see where we end up!_ \-- and after walking in circles for you don’t know how long, you eventually end up in the City of London. _Domine dirige nos_ are your bitter words as you pass the Blackfriars Station.

Somehow you end up on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral looking up at the entryway. You pull your watch out of your pocket and glance at the face -- a quarter ‘til five. The last tourist admission was forty-five minutes ago and since it’s a Friday, Evensong starts in fifteen minutes. Why you remember this, you don’t know. You didn’t believe in God before Alex’s death and you certainly aren’t about to start believing now, but the place holds memories of innocence, before Alex, before you knew what biphobia was, before Daryl moved away to the States and your family fell apart. Back when you would come here with your family and you and your brother would run off to the Whispering Gallery and murmur stupid, childish messages through the walls until your parents dragged you off to the sermon.

“There willnae be any more tours today.”

You lift your head slightly and shift your gaze to the left to see a young East Asian woman, most likely a few years older than you. Her Scottish accent is thick, and from the sound of her she’s got to be from somewhere near Dundee.

“I know,” you say.

“Oh,” she says. She brushes her long black hair away from her eyes. “You’re from here.”

“Unfortunately.”

“The way you’re lookin’ at the cathedral I thought ya were just another bloody tourist.”

“No,” you murmur, looking away from her and back at the entryway again. “I used to come here for services with my family when I was a kid. Every Saturday evening and sometimes Wednesdays, too.”

“Used to? No anymore?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“We fell apart.”

“Oh?”

You turn to her with a small, wry smirk. “My brother moved away to the States and got himself engaged, my parents forgot they had kids, and I ran away from home and moved in with a whore.” A stab of guilt shoots through you at the words -- Beau is your friend and you shouldn’t speak of him that way -- but you don’t let it show on your face.

“Is that no the way it always goes,” she chuckles. “So you’re here tae remember the happier times, aye?”

You shrug. Maybe, but you’re not sure. “What are you doing here?”

She taps her index finger against perfectly painted pink lips. “I’m just another bloody tourist,” she smiles wryly. “I’m here for the parties, the clubs, the raves. We dinnae have any of that in Camsbukenneth. I used tae live in Dundee but I moved with my family because they wanted tae get away from the city. We got away fine, all that’s there is a pub and a city hall. It always smells like fuckin’ sheep and if ya go out tae any of the surrounding boroughs there’s tourists fuckin’ everywhere. Camsbukenneth is no even considered a proper city, just an in-between town.” She rolls her eyes and unzips the purse draped over her shoulder, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and placing one between her lips, then drops the pack back in, looking for something more, a lighter, most likely.

“Here.” You take your own lighter out of your pocket and light the cigarette.

“Ta,” she smiles. She takes a drag and lets out a thin, delicate stream of smoke. “I like a man who knows how to treat a boy like a lady.”

And for the first time since Alex died, you smile. It’s small and it’s fleeting, but she still seems to understand how rare it is and smiles softly back.

“I’m Poppy. My given name, if ya believe it. Who needs a queen’s name when you’re blessed with one like that, ya ken?” she laughs.

“Riley.”

A small breeze kicks up, sending Poppy’s wavy lavender skirt dancing against a backdrop of cold, grey concrete, black hair and strawberry blond blowing across two sets of eyes, one dark brown, one bright green.

“I’m gang tae be playing at a rave tonight,” she says. “A DJ and all that. I go by Lady V. I’ll be in Brent at --”

“At midnight, yeah?” you interrupt.

“Aye.”

The breeze dies down, her skirt and hair go limp again, and she brushes down her clothes to ease the sudden wrinkles out.

“Are ya gang tae be there?”

“Yeah. I’m going with a friend.”

“See if ya can find me. I’d like tae talk tae ya again.”

The two stand in silence until Poppy’s cigarette goes out and she drops it to the concrete stairs, stepping out the embers. “I’ve always wondered if God realizes what a big mistake He made, creating the world the way He did,” she suddenly says.

“I haven’t thought about it much,” you say. “But then, I suppose you’d have to believe in God to consider the idea.”

“I suppose so.”

The hour bell rings five times, drowning out the traffic and footsteps and chatter of the city as you both fall silent, standing like gargoyles on the stairs -- perfectly ugly, lovely and horrible, guarding each other in a way only strangers can.


	2. Chapter 2

**Eleven.**

“I want tae destroy somethin’ ugly and create somethin’ beautiful from the ruins,” Poppy says.

The rave was broken up by police an hour ago, but you and Beau are both still tripping, acid rushing through your bodies and distorting the world into beautiful fragments of sound and color. There are still a few kandi kids laughing a few metres away, twirling and dancing with one another, melodic voices singing to the stars. The grass is cold and wet _like clouds_ you can’t help but think and you feel rather like you’re floating while blissful laughter echoes in your head. _Come be a cloud with me!_

“There are too many clouds in the sky tonight,” Poppy continues, flicking the ash off her cigarette. “That’s what I hate about England. It’s always cloudy. It always rains. Ya cannae ever see the stars.”

“It’s just as well,” you say. “They’d probably just laugh at us, anyway.”

Poppy and Beau both send you sidelong glances.

“Why do you say that?” Beau asks.

“No reason. Just a thought.”

Neither Poppy nor Beau speak right away. Beau frowns but very slowly a wry smile spreads across Poppy’s lips. A short bark of laughter echoes through the drizzling night as she throws her head back. The moonlight flashes against her pale throat and a puff of grey smoke flows from her grinning lips. “Nice,” she chuckles. “The stars are laughin’ at us. Probably. At all of us bloody tossers scrambling through life when they know there’s nothin’ at the end anyway. Your parents fuck, ya come along nine months later, go tae school and get a shitty job, and then one day a double-decker bus crashes intae ya and _bam!_ Bob’s your uncle.”

“I didn’t know you were a fan of The Smiths,” you say absently.

“Morrissey is a genius. How can I no be a fan?”

Beau groans and falls back against the rocky grass covered ground, a harsh thump echoing in tandem with Poppy’s obstreperous laughter when his head hits. “You are even more strange than Riley is,” he sighs. “You are both so dark. So dreary. I do not understand either of you, but that must be why ‘e likes you so much.”

You roll your eyes and snort quietly, dipping your hand into your pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

“No!” Beau shouts, grabbing your wrist and wrenching your cigarettes away. “I ‘ave told you ‘ow many times to not smoke when you are going to stay in my bed. I will make you sleep in the ‘allway if you do, Riley --”

“Beau --”

“I mean it,” Beau glowers.

“Fine.” You sigh and snatch then back, stuffing them back into your pocket.

“Good,” Beau huffs. He grabs your arm and tugs you closer, resting his head on your shoulder.

“That’s beautiful,” Poppy laughs. “That boy has ya whipped, mate.”

“He does n--”

“My name is not ‘that boy,’” Beau huffs.

“--not,” you finish.

“Right,” Poppy chuckles. “I like ya, boyo,” she grins, ruffling Beau’s already mussed up hair. He bats her hand away with a soft growl, turning away and burying his face against your arm

“You smell green,” he says. “Like the grass.”

“Of course I do,” you say, but it’s distracted, because you’re more focused on the silky fabric of his shirt than anything else.

“E-tards,” Poppy laughs, rolling her eyes.

 

**Twelve.**

One of the kandi kids is singing the Neverending Story theme. You always liked that book when you were a child. It was the movie you and Alex watched together the first time he came over, when you were both still in primary school. Since then, it’s been one of your favorite videos, but now it hurts too much to even look at the cover.

Beau is curled up in the grass, now, his head resting on your lap as he dozes. It’s almost 3:00 a.m. and you have to work at 8:30, but you don’t try to wake him up or make him move. You gently run your fingers through his hair, glancing over at the three still dancing kandi kids and another teenager lying on the grass, maybe your age, wearing scruffy black boots and ripped blue jeans and a black denim jacket, a Damned patch and a Minor Threat patch pinned into the sleeve. One of the kandi kids -- a boy, you think, though it’s hard to tell -- flops down on his stomach, pressing a kiss to the punk’s shoulder. You look away again.

“Are ya all right, hen?” Poppy asks. “Ya dinnae look so well.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lyin’.”

You blink and look over at her, surprised. “What?”

“You’re lyin’,” she repeats. She smoothes out her bright violet miniskirt and curls her fishnet-covered legs underneath her as she turns to better look you in the face. She brushes her hair -- with neon purple streaks, tonight -- away from her eyes and loops it behind her ear, flashing the same violet as her fingernails when the moonlight catches it. “You’re no fine. Somethin’s hurtin’ ya and it’s hurtin’ ya badly. Let’s try the question again, aye? Are ya all right, Riley?”

You snort softly in reply and look back at Beau’s sleeping form again. “I haven’t been all right in months.”

“But ya were afore then,” Poppy says gently. “Why did that change?”

“It’s not something I talk about,” you say.

“But it has tae do with some kind of relationship?”

Your head shoots up, your body tense, eyes frightened. Poppy’s eyes widen and she very softly rests her hand on yours. You stiffen even more. She pulls away again.

“The way ya were watchin’ the two over there,” she says gently. “How sad ya looked when they started their cuddlin’. The way ya obviously care about Beau, but won’t say anythin’ about it. Somethin’ bad happened with someone else, aye?”

You close your eyes, angling your head down. You bite down on your bottom lip, trying to distract from the emotional pain with something physical. Anything to keep you from falling apart. Anything to keep you from breaking down.

“Ya dinnae have tae tell me what,” she says. “Just know I’ll listen if ya ever decide ya need tae talk.”

 

**Thirteen.**

The sky slowly, languidly changes from deep indigo to pale pink and gold and blue as the stars fall and the sun rises. Beau is still sleeping. You still have work at 8:30. Poppy went home about an hour ago, saying she needed to put together another set for a party she’ll be spinning at tonight. One of the kandi kids has also gone home, but the couple is still cuddled together, and a young woman with bright blue hair and neon green, leopard print phat pants sits a short distance away with her knees held against her chest, watching the sun rise.

You sigh and gently shake Beau’s shoulder with one hand, running the fingers of the other through his hair, trying to gently wake him. “Beau,” you whisper. “Beau, wake up. I need to be at work in a few hours.”

Beau whimpers and curls into you even more, his cold nose pressing against your bare stomach.

“Come on, doll,” you whisper, just a little louder. “Wake up.”

Beau grumbles something in French so softly you can only make out two of the words. He shifts slightly and his eyes flutter open. “Quoi?” he murmurs, not quite awake enough to remember the English language just yet.

“Debout, chou,” you repeat. Beau yawns and slowly sits up, stretching the sleep from his muscles.

“Quelle heure est-il?” he mumbles, squinting at the rising sun for a few moments before burying his face in your arm.

“Almost 6:00,” you answer. You wrap your arm around his shoulders.  
“Come on, we need to get home. I have work at 8:30. You can sleep on the way back. I’ll take care of you.”

 

 **Fourteen**.

Aside from you, your coworker Alice, and your manager Robert, the guitar shop is empty. You lazily muck about with an acoustic guitar, playing bits and bats of different songs before deciding on The Cure’s “Fascination Street” as Alice talks on the phone with a customer about the repairs to his electric Ibanez. You’ve never been sure why the store is even open on Sundays -- hardly anyone comes in until 1:00 or 200, and even then, customer traffic is so slow you probably lose more money on power than you make in sales. At least you aren’t working on commission like at your last job.

The door opens and the bell tied to the handle jingles and you look up from your music to see the same punk rocker and two kandi kids you were watching after Poppy left, still wearing the same clothes as the night before. For a moment, you wonder if they’ve gone to sleep since then, or even gone home. You look away and cover your mouth with the back of your arm and yawn widely -- you’ve barely slept in four days, and even before then you were only getting a few hours a night. But maybe it’s better that way. At least while you’re awake you don’t have to worry about the nightmares.

You jump when Alice slams the phone back into the receiver with a grumbled, “Jesus Christ, I bloody _hate_ that kid.”

You raise an eyebrow and turn in her direction. “Was it William again?”

“Yuh, the lousy fuckwit.” She blows her pink and blonde hair out of her face and gnaws on her lip ring in annoyance. “I been playin’ guitars since before I could walk and he thinks he knows more about how they work than I do when he’s never even touched one before he came in three weeks ago. I hate it when people try to tell me how to do my job.”

“Make sure it’s horribly out of tune when he comes to pick it up after the repairs, then,” you smirk.

“I was goin’ to completely restring it backward _and_ make sure it was out of tune, but your idea’s less likely to get me a lecture.” Alice laughs, glancing over to the right. “Oi!” she shouts amiably, waving at the three who just walked in. “How are you doin’ today? Need help findin’ anythin’?”

The young woman looks up from the music book she’d been skimming through, smiles brightly, and nods. She puts the book back and grabs the wrists of both of her companions, tugging them up to the counter.

“Well,” she says, “I dunno nuffink about guitars other’n I dunno ‘ow to play one, but m’big brother ‘ere’s lookin’ fer somefink since ‘e trashed ‘is last one.”

The punk rolls his eyes and ruffles her hair, grinning fondly at her before looking back to you and Alice.

“You trashed your last guitar,” you and Alice simultaneously deadpan.

“Yeh,” he chuckles, shaking his spiky hair away from his face and out of his bright blue eyes. The same blue as Alex’s were. Your eyes fall from his eyes to his chin.

“Real stupid ‘ow it ‘appened, too,” he continues. “Was playin’ a show wi’ my band and it stopped workin’ in the middle of my solo. I flipped out and smashed it against the stage. What’s stupid about it is that it still worked just fine. Damn thing just came unplugged. At least one of the guitarists from the band we was openin’ for let me borrow hers so I could finish my set, but mine was a fuckin’ nice guitar and it sucks that I ‘ave to find a replacement.”

“My silly little Anarchyface,” the other man laughs. Boy, even -- he’s quite a bit younger, sixteen at the most.

“Nice,” Alice chuckles.

“What kind was it?” you ask. You prop your acoustic against the counter as you stand. “Maybe we’ve got the same model.”

“Fender Strat 1987.”

You and Alice both cringe. “Ouch,” you hiss. “Well, the Strat turned forty this year and they’ve come out with an anniversary model if you’d like to see it.”

“It’s expensive,” Alice says, “but it’s a damn sexy guitar.”

“Well,” the punk says, “I can tell you right now I prolly won’t be able to afford it, but ‘ell, I _definitely_ want to see it.”

Suddenly, the blue-haired teenager points to you and says, “Oh! I saw you at the --”

“ _Show_ , last night,” you interrupt. Alice knows about your partying and drug habits, but your managers don’t and you don’t want to risk getting fired over them. “Yeah, I saw you there, too.”

She blinks, not quite understanding, but she goes along with it. “Right. I thought you looked familiar!” she grins. “You’re Lady V’s mate! I saw you an’ that other bloke ‘angin’ out wi’ ‘er after! You’re so lucky! I love ‘er music, it’s so amazing!”

“We met yesterday at the Square Mile,” you shrug, walking around the counter and waving her, her brother, and their friend over toward the back. “Beau -- the one who was with us -- and I were going anyway, and she happened to be spinning there. She told me to come find her after so we could talk more.”

“That’s so brilliant!” she laughs. “My names Victoria, my madman of a brother ‘ere is Elias, and ‘is Lolita of a boyfriend is Naeem.” She squawks unceremoniously when Naeem tugs on her hair.

“Stuff it! I’m sixteen in two months. It’s not like we’re sleeping together or anything.”

_This is so completely illegal. I’m not sixteen for two months._

_Well, it’s not as if we’re sleeping together, so it’s not **that** bad._

Your steps fumble, just for a moment, and your hand shoots out to rest on a nearby amp as you close your eyes and try to focus again, bring yourself back to today. You can’t let yourself get stuck back there again, not right now, not in the middle of the day, not where the world that doesn’t understand can see it.

“Shit, are you all right?”

You open your eyes again and stiffen at the unfamiliar hand on your shoulder. It has to be Elias’s, too big to belong to Victoria or Naeem.

“Fine,” you choke, shrugging off the hand away. “When I was a kid I got a pretty bad ear infection and it mucked up my balance a bit. I just get dizzy sometimes. It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

It’s frightening how quickly and easily the lies come, now.

 

**Fifteen.**

_Keep a stiff upper lip, Riley. Men don’t cry._

Your father said that all the time before you left. Men don’t cry. You’ve never seen your father cry, your grandfather, your brother, any of your uncles or cousins.

None of them have lost someone they’d loved more than anything to suicide. None of them have tried to kill themselves because it hurt too much to wake up every morning. None of them have ever gotten so off their faces on drugs that they’ve woken up in a strange flat in a city they don’t recognize without knowing how they got there, with no one but their only friend beside them, unconscious and pale and breathing so shallowly they have to check his pulse to make sure he’s still alive.

“Beau,” you murmur. You shake him. “Beau. Come on, open your eyes.”

He doesn’t move. His face doesn’t change. No sound.

“Beau.” Louder. More frantic. Shaking harder, now, _come on, come on, wake up, wake up!_ “Beau!” you shout. “Beau! Fuck, Beau, wake up!”

A soft grumble. Beau’s mouth twitches.

 _Oh thank God, he can hear me, come on, wake up,_ “Beau!”

Your heart pounds in your chest, your mind racing, hands shaking, _I can’t do this again, I can’t, I **can’t** , I can’t lose someone like this again--_

“Beau! Goddammit, Beau! Wake up!”

Another soft grumble. Beau’s hands move. His eyes flutter.

“Quoi?” The word is soft, weak, just a breath of a sound, but it’s there, and it’s the first time you’ve noticed how beautiful his voice really is.

“Is anyone here?” you shout. “I need help!”

“Riley?”

Your gaze shoots back down to Beau as his eyes flutter open, squinting into the cold light.

“Oh, God, Beau.” You pull him into your arms. “You’re alive, oh God, you’re alive.”

“Riley?” His voice is confused, disoriented, his accent a little thicker than usual. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know, but you’re alive, and that’s all that matters. Fuck, Beau, I was bloody terrified you’d died.”

And you pull him into a kiss, desperate, thankful, fearful all at once.

“Ry?”

The voice is soft, disbelieving. A voice you haven’t heard in months, thought you would never hear again. You pull away from Beau to look at the door, your eyes widening when you see familiar blue eyes, wide with fear, sadness, betrayal. Anger.

Your body goes cold. Your heart stops. For a moment, you can’t breathe.

“Alex?”

You open your eyes.

The ceiling stares back emotionlessly, cold and dark in the emptiness of the early morning before sunrise.

 

**Sixteen.**

It’s 12:15 in the afternoon. Beau is still asleep. You’re in the living room, toying a piece of paper between your fingers, trying to decide whether or not to ring the number there.

_Just know I’ll listen if ya ever decide ya need tae talk._

You do need to talk. Not about that, not about him, about something else. Elias gave you his number in the shop last week -- _give me a ring sometime, maybe we can catch each other at another party_ \-- but it’s not something he could understand. You could tell the moment you started talking.

The only other person you have is Beau. As much as you _want_ to talk about it with him, you can’t bring yourself to. It would make you both too vulnerable.

Finally, you go to the kitchen counter and pick up the phone. You stare at the receiver for a moment. You put it down again, go into the kitchen, see the shortbread still there, unopened and uneaten.

You turn back around and make the call.

 

**Seventeen.**

You don’t know what the pill you popped is made of. Poppy called it a soma, but didn’t say much more than that.

Whatever it is, you like it. For the first time since Alex died, you’re truly, honestly relaxed.

“This pill is brilliant,” you smile. You close your eyes and curl up on Poppy’s couch, hugging a pillow to your chest.

“It is, isn’t it,” Poppy says. She’s out of her normal made up state today -- no makeup, no wigs, no dresses or skirts or falsies, just a t-shirt and jeans and a buzz cut. It’s amazing how much different she looks.

“It’s called a soma, you said?”

“Aye.”

“I’ve never heard anyone talk about it before. The only thing I’ve seen about it was in _Brave New World_ , and I’m pretty sure that drug doesn’t exist.”

“It’s no the same thing,” Poppy says. He lights a cigarette and takes a drag, breathing the smoke out in a slow, thin grey stream. “Just named after it. But it’s a pretty little pill, aye? Only drug I’ll touch. I love it.”

You’re listening to Depeche Mode.

_Bring your chains, your lips of tragedy, and fall into my arms._

 

**Eighteen.**

“It sounds tae me like ya love that boy,” Poppy says. “Ya just cannae admit it for some reason.”

“You don’t understand,” you say. “It’s not like that. I don’t love him. I care about him, yeah, but it’s not the same thing.”

Poppy looks at you evenly, but doesn’t speak right away. You match her stare a few moments before you have to look away. Poppy’s eyes are unnerving. She can read you too well.

“Two years ago,” she says, “when I was nineteen, I met a girl named Maisie. She was a beautiful thing, so lively, so happy. I’ve known a lot of girls, had a lot of girlfriends, but she’s the only one I’ve ever been in love with, I think.”

You look back up again, forehead wrinkled in thought. She pauses to give you a wry smile. “Aye,” she says. “I usually date women, except for one of the lovers I had last year and a boyfriend I had just after I finished primary school. Most people dinnae care tae guess that. Girls like me are just gay men who want to be straight, after all, right?”

You shrug one shoulder and look away again.

“She had a boyfriend, though,” Poppy says. “But it was fine. I was no about tae try tae break them up. They were happy. She was happier than she’d have been with me. We knew each other for three months. Then her boyfriend died. A car crash. She changed, after that. Her eyes went dead, empty. She never smiled. She never laughed. She never cried, either. She never did much of anything.”

You look back at Poppy warily, but don’t say anything. You can’t think of anything meaningful.

“Your eyes look like hers did,” Poppy says, locking her dark brown eyes on yours. “Your eyes have the vacancy of someone who’s lost part of his soul.”

You close your eyes and turn away. You bite the inside of your lip, clench your right hand into a fist, bitten nails digging into your palm.

“I need to go,” you say. “I should get back. If Beau’s woken up he’s probably wondering where I am. I have work in two hours, anyway.”

You stand and grab your jacket, sliding it on as you make your way toward the door.

“Think about what I said, hen,” Poppy says. “What you’re doing is no fair tae him _or_ tae you.”

You don’t look back. You just nod, once, not in agreement. In acknowledgement.

“There’s gang tae be another party tonight in Bexley at 11:00. It’s by invite only, but if ya want tae come, I can get ya in. Beau, too. Talk tae him and ring me later.”

“All right.” You still don’t look back as you leave the flat, eyes narrowing at the sudden bright light reflecting off the wet pavement.

Your mind is still going a little too slow, your body still a little too relaxed, your eyes still a little too unfocused, your feet still dragging a little too much.

You should have stayed until the high wore off.

Hopefully coming down off of this one isn’t too much of a crash.

 

**Nineteen.**

The high still hasn’t worn off. It’ll probably take six hours from the time it kicked in. Downers usually do.

Four hours to go.

You’re a little dizzy, a little lightheaded, your vision’s a little blurry, your mind’s a little fuzzy -- but in a good, calming way. It almost feels like a really nice muscle relaxer or painkiller. It was probably some kind of pharmaceutical like that. You should have asked Poppy to see the bottle or the bag the pills came in so you could buy some for yourself, let Beau have a try.

Maybe Beau _has_ tried it already. Maybe he knows exactly what it is. You should ask.

You sit curled into yourself by a window on the tube, ignoring the business suits going on their lunch breaks and the students heading to and from class and the elderly going hell knows where. The hood of your jumper is pulled tight around your face, your eyes are closed, head resting against the window, arms wrapped tightly around your stomach, feet propped on the empty seat beside you.

It’s times like this you wish you hadn’t sold your tape player so you could afford that last bottle of Zolpidem. You ended up building up a tolerance before you were halfway through them, anyway -- after that, the pills disappeared faster than any other drug you’d ever been hooked on.

You haven’t been able to get any more since. Your psychiatrist cut you off, saying she wouldn’t write another script for a drug seeker.

You haven’t been back to see her. Her psycho-analyzing hadn’t been helpful. Only the drugs had.

You miss the Zolpidem and Modafinil the most. The withdrawals from both at once had been hell on your body.

Beau could probably find them somewhere. You should ask him about that, too. Though now you’ve found speed, Modafinil doesn’t really have the same allure. It would be more like a shot of espresso, now.

The train stops and people file off and people file on, like ants in a swarm, like sheep in a herd, like bacteria in an open wound.

The train starts again and someone falls against your legs.

You open your eyes with a soft curse, looking over to see a young woman about your age, maybe a year younger, picking herself up off the ground. She runs her hand through her short black hair, looking up at you a moment with soft, nervous eyes before she looks down again.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly. She looks at the ground, at you, at the ground again, unsure if she should make eye contact. She’s from somewhere in India, judging by her accent. “The train started before I got a chance to sit down or grab a pole.”

“It’s fine,” you say. “It happens.” You move your feet to the floor to give her a place to sit, shifting your body slightly, trying to get comfortable again.

“Thanks,” she says, and she slips her headphones on.

You shrug, turn away, and close your eyes again.

Neither of you say anything more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Twenty.**

The lift is still out when you arrive back home. It’s been three days. You sigh and take the stairs again.

When you finally step up the seventh flight, your legs are dragging, your balance is off, and your vision is even blurrier than it had been when you first got on the tube. It’ll be at least three more hours before the high wears off enough that you can consider going to work. You have to be there in one.

You lazily push the door open, stumbling inside the dark flat and making your way to the phone. You pause in the kitchenette and drag a chair over to the counter where you slump down to reach over the phone and pick up the receiver. After three tries, you finally get the right number. The phone rings five times. The store’s answering machine picks up on the fifth.

“Hello, it’s Riley,” you say. “I won’t be able to come in today. I’ve come down with something and I think I have a fever. Hopefully I’ll be back in tomorrow.”

You slump against the counter, hand lingering on the receiver for a few minutes after you hang up. Music is playing in the living room. Mylene Farmer’s ‘Agnus Dei.’

Beau is awake, and, judging from his music choice, most likely high.

You force yourself to your feet and drag yourself to the living room, stumbling the last few steps and collapsing onto the couch and Beau’s hand.

“Sorry.” You slide a little farther away. Beau shifts his hand and waves it listlessly.

“It is fine,” he murmurs. His eyes slip closed and he slides downward until his head falls on your shoulder. “I am so numb I may as well not even ‘ave ‘ands.”

You glance over at the coffee table and the old, scratched mirror, the razor, the curled up ten pound note, the last two lines of cocaine Beau left behind. “How many lines did you do?”

“Six,” he says. “It is not as strong as the last batch was. I did not feel anything until ‘alfway through the fifth.”

“You’re building up a tolerance.”

“And you are slurring your words,” Beau mumbles. “Yet you are not drunk. I would smell it.”

“I was over at Poppy’s earlier. I popped a few pills there.”

“What?”

“Soma, he called it.”

“He?”

“He only prefers ‘she’ when he’s in drag. He wasn’t in drag.”

Beau hums. “Carisoma,” he finally says. “But that would explain your speech. I am surprised you made it back. ‘Ave they fixed the lift?”

“No. I had to walk the stairs again.”

“If that is true, then I am even more surprised you made it back. You can ‘ave the last two lines if you want them. It will make the dizziness not bother you anymore.”

You don’t answer right away. The song ends and the next track on the album begins. ‘Desenchantee.’ A few moments later, you slide off the couch to your knees. You pull your wallet out of your pocket and fish out a twenty pound note. You roll it up tightly and snort the two lines, one right after the other. You cough a few times at the drip in the back of your throat, bitter and chalky like crushed aspirin, and force yourself back up to the couch. Your head falls into Beau’s lap and your eyes slip closed.

You don’t feel anything different.

You must be building up a tolerance, too.

 

**Twenty-One.**

The CD has played through nearly four times. Neither you nor Beau has moved or spoken in those three hours. Your left foot is the only thing that’s gone numb, and probably just because the circulation got cut off.

Your head and vision slowly start to clear and reality is creeping in at the edges of your mind. Slowly, slowly you sober; your muscles tense, pain crawls through your body and you grit your teeth to fight it back but that just makes it _worse_ , the pain is so _hot_ , so _sudden_ , so _everywhere_ , snapping in your skull and clawing at your stomach and flashing through your muscles in scalding tendrils and it _can’t_ be from the crash, it was only a muscle relaxer you’ve used _once_ , but you’re not addicted so it can’t be withdrawal and it isn’t the cocaine because you didn’t use enough to _feel_ anything and you aren’t addicted to that either _anyway_ because you only use it a few times a month _if that_ , something else must be wrong, so, so wrong and so painful and so everywhere --

“Riley?” Beau shifts slightly, his leg moves and your head jerks and a groan seeps out through your clenched teeth and suddenly a hand is on your forehead, so cold and awkward but familiar, another one on your cheek, so cold, _freezing_ , and you try to turn away but the hands hold you steady and Beau says your name again, panicked, “Riley? Riley, what is wrong?”

“I don’t know --“ But you _do_ , you _do_ know because _everything_ is wrong, everything is so wrong in your body and your mind and nothing is right and it hasn’t been right for so long and maybe it never _will_ be because the drugs only kill it for short spurts and it always comes back, it always comes _back_ and it comes back so much harder each time --

You flinch when Beau’s hands -- still so cold, so _cold_ \-- slide over your face, under your neck, and Beau hisses something in French through his teeth you don’t recognize but sounds like some strange hybrid of curses. “You are burning,” he says. “You ‘ave a fever. It cannot be a drug mix because it would ‘ave ‘appened before now. You are sick --“ And you _know_ that, but hearing it from someone else who knows makes it a little easier to believe and calms you down a little, but it still hurts _so much everywhere_ \--

“Riley --” Beau’s voice is panicked again. “Riley, be calm, do not cry, please, ne pleures pas, Riley, s’il te plâit, _s’il te plâit_ , _Riley_ \--”

You didn’t realize you were crying, didn’t think you could ever cry again, but now you can and while everything you’ve heard has told you crying is cathartic, it isn’t, it’s just painful and pitiful and makes everything _worse_ \--

“Riley, I will be right back,” Beau says. “Stay ‘ere. Do not move --”

“Where are you going?”

“I am going to call 999,” Beau says. “Something is bad. You need ‘elp and I do not know what to --”

“ _Don’t_ ,” you say. “Don’t. You’re completely off your face right now, if someone comes you’ll be arrested, we --”

“I do not _care_ , Riley!” Beau shouts. His voice is tearful, strained. “I do not care what ‘appens to me. As long as you are safe, it does not matter!”

“I’ll be fine, Beau,” you murmur, trying to fight off the pain, the panic, the stress, the fatigue, trying to stay calm so Beau will stay calm. “I’ll be fine. I’m just sick, remember? I’m fine. Please. Please don’t call. Please.” You force your eyes open, tilt your head back, touch Beau’s face and catch his eyes -- wide, terrified, and with something else you’ve never seen there before and so don’t recognize. “Please, I’ll be fine. Just stay here. Please.” _I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to lose you. I **can’t**_ , _I_ \--

But you can’t finish the thought because you don’t know _what_ you think.

“Please don’t leave.”

Something about those three whispered words must be absolutely pitiful, because Beau’s eyes soften and he rests his cold hand on yours on his cheek. He leans down, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, and whispers, “I will not leave. I promise.”

 

**Twenty-Two.**

The next time you open your eyes, you’re lying in Beau’s bed with a blanket thrown over you and a cool cloth on your forehead. You feel like you’ve been trampled by angry elephants.

Beau is sitting beside you, singing softly in French.

“Défaire nos repères secrets, Où mes doigts pris sur tes poignets, Je t'ai--” His mouth snaps closed when you shift slightly. You sit in heavy silence for at least five minutes.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” you murmur.

“I sang in the choir at my school in France before I came here.” Beau’s voice is uncharacteristically soft, his eyes trained on your shoulder.

“I didn’t know that.”

“You did not ask me.”

Again, silence. Cold, stark, awkward.

“’Ow do you feel?” Beau finally asks. His eyes are still on your shoulder.

“Like shite,” you whisper. You close your eyes. “Everything aches. But it’s not a sharp pain anymore.”

“Your fever is going down. You are still very warm, but not as ‘ot as you were before. You ‘ave been asleep for four hours.”

You open your eyes and turn to him. “Have you been here all that time?” The words are just above a breath, disbelieving. The lilt at the end of the question betrays your unsurety.

A pause.

“Yes. I was…” But he doesn’t finish the sentence. You don’t push him.

He still hasn’t looked into your eyes.

“’Ow does your stomach feel?” he asks instead. “Can you eat something?”

“I think so.”

“We ‘ave some tinned soup. I will ‘eat some up for you. You ‘ave been living off drugs and caffeine for the past two weeks. You need food and sleep. I will be right back.”

The bed creaks softly when Beau stands. You reach out to catch his wrist, but pause. You let your hand drop back down to the bed.

You don’t know why Poppy’s words come to your head, but they do -- _It sounds tae me like ya love that boy. Ya just cannae admit it for some reason._

Beau pauses at the door when you murmur, “Beau, I --”

_I love you, Ry. I love you so fucking much._

_I love you too, Alex._

_Will you love me forever?_

_I’ll love you even when forever’s over._

“What?” Beau asks.

“Would you get me a glass of water?” It’s so soft a whisper, you’re not sure he heard you until a few moments later when he whispers,

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

He nods. “I will be right back. Please do not get up. If you need anything, only call for me.”

He doesn’t look back as he walks out the door, leaving you to stare at the ceiling. You close your eyes.

 

**Twenty-Three.**

It’s been four days since your breakdown. You haven’t been to work since you called in the first time. Beau refuses to let you leave the flat.

Beau hasn’t been to a party in all that time. He’s only left the flat once, and not for drugs, like you thought, but for food in tins and boxes so you won’t have to live on takeaway. Beau is hopeless in the kitchen.

You’re curled up on his bed, staring blankly at the wall. You’ve barely spoken since you woke up those four days ago. Only when Beau has asked you a question, and once to say ‘no’ when he suggested you see your psychiatrist.

The room is dim, the shades half-drawn to block out most of the early evening light. The only sounds are the muffled noises of traffic below and your and Beau’s soft breathing. Then, clothes rustling, the soft sound of sock-covered feet hitting carpet as Beau stands, the quiet, padded footsteps walking toward the door.

“I’m sorry, Beau,” you whisper.

The footsteps stop.

“For what?”” Beau’s voice is just as soft.

“Everything.” A long, drawn-out pause. “For ignoring you. For sending you such fucked up, mixed signals. For being so ungrateful for everything you’ve done for me. For being such an arse. For everything. I’m sorry.”

You fall silent. Beau doesn’t respond.

“I just…” You pause when your voice cracks in the back of your throat, but only for a moment. “I’m just so fucked up. I don’t… I just…” _I **care** about you so much, but I don’t know how to say it. _ “I always say you wouldn’t understand, but I’ve never even tried to talk to you. I want to. I just… I don’t know how.”

_Before I say anything, I want you to know that it’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could have done. It was because of you that I managed to hold on as long as I did, and I thank you so much for that. I wish I could have been stronger, but I just couldn’t handle it any more. It was just too much._

“Beau, I just …I …”

Beau still hasn’t said anything, but you haven’t heard any more footsteps, so you know Beau hasn’t left the room.

“I--”

_You’re so strong, Ry, and you always have been. You can make it without me._

“I’m sorry, Beau. I’m so sorry.”

_Ry, I’m so sorry. I’m so goddamned fucking sorry. I guess I really am just a pathetic, spineless brat like my parents said. But I just can’t do it any more._

“What do you want me to say, Riley?” Beau whispers. “That it is fine? Because it is not. That I forgive you? I want to, but I do not know if I can--” his voice hitches and he falls quiet, his breathing just a bit harsher, as if he’s about to cry.

“I don’t expect you to,” you whisper. You close your eyes. Your chest and throat tighten and you curl into yourself. “I don’t deserve it. I know that.”

_But I want you to know that I love you. And I’m going to love you forever. Even when my body dies, those feelings won’t._

“I’m sorry, Bea--”

“I ‘ate you, Riley Ackart!” Beau suddenly screams, slamming his fist into the wall. You flinch. “I ‘ate you! You treat me like garbage one moment and like a doll the next and I never know what you are thinking, I never know what you want, I never know if you even care about me even though you say you do, ‘ow do I know? ‘Ow do I know what the ‘ell is going on in your mind?” His voice breaks on the last word, going higher pitched, a sob interrupting his tirade. You open your eyes. You want to turn and look at him, but you don’t. You’re not sure if you can. “You never talk to me, you never tell me what you want from me! I do not know what you want from me, if you even care if I do not come back when I go out every night! I ‘ate you! I ‘ate you! Je t’hais! Je t'aime, abruti…”

You jerk up and your head whirls toward Beau’s voice. He’s leaning against the wall, arms wrapped around his torso, head angled down. Something glimmers on his face in the dull light. Tears. Slowly, he slides down to the ratty carpet, hugging his knees. “Je t’aime, abruti.”

You trip over the tangled sheets when you step out of the bed a little too fast and land on your hands and knees on the floor. “Beau,” you whisper.

“I ‘ate you,” Beau sobs. “I ‘ate you.”

And you rush to be beside him, gathering him up in your arms. He seems smaller, somehow, younger and so fragile, all awkward angles and sharp joints.

“I’m so sorry, Beau,” you murmur. You press a kiss to his messy, tangled hair.

“I ‘ate you,” Beau whispers. He grips roughly to your arms as he dissolved into harsh sobs and hot tears. “I ‘ate you. I ‘ate you so much.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

 

**Twenty-Four.**

You aren’t sure how long Beau has been curled up against you, but he’s been asleep a short while now. You can’t feel your left leg from sitting in the same position too long, but you don’t yet move. Beau’s breathing is slightly erratic and his hands are fisted tightly in your shirt. His face rests in the crook of your arm.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again.

And then --

“I love you.”

And you hate yourself for admitting it now, when Beau can’t hear you, because you know you won’t be able to say it again when he wakes up.

 

**Twenty-Five.**

Your leg is still asleep. It has been for at least twenty minutes. Carefully, you shift Beau just enough to stretch it out, wincing at the sudden shock of pain when your ankle hits the floor and the feeling trickles back. Beau grumbles, his fists tightening just for a moment before they go slack.

“Riley?” he mumbles.

“Je suis ici, choux,” you murmur back. You don’t bother with English. Beau can’t understand it when he’s just waking up.

“Quelle heure est-il?” Beau’s voice is ragged from screaming. His eyes flutter open, bloodshot from crying. Seeing Beau so vulnerable simultaneously terrifies you and breaks your heart.

“Je ne sais pas,” you whisper. “Il est tard dans le soir. Sas, debout.”

“Je t’hais.” The sentence lacks the vehemence and frustration from before, now sad and dejected, almost sulky.

“Je connais. Je suis désolé. I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I know it sounds so stupid and cliché, but I just… I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know how else to act. I really, really fucked up. I’m sorry. And I know I can’t fix it. I know I can’t undo everything I did. I know it doesn’t matter how many times I apologize, that you’ll still hate me. But I am sorry.”

“Shut up, Riley,” Beau whispers.

You do.

“I do not ‘ate you. I want to. I want to completely ‘ate you and abhor you and despise you and make you leave and not care that you never come back.”

Your gaze lowers with each of his words, your arms loosen on him as you shrink back, but you know you deserve it.

“But I cannot ‘ate you,” he says, his voice suddenly so soft you can barely hear him. “I cannot make myself because I am stupid and weak and cannot ‘elp it. I would not be able to live with myself if I did those things. I would ‘ate myself if I did.” He pauses, then lifts his head, and even though his eyes are sorrowful and red-rimmed with tears, they’re as challenging and fiery as they are every time he leaves the flat, daring you to interrupt him, daring you to disagree. “Because even though you are the most mad, stupid, annoying, frustrating, _infuriating_ person I ‘ave ever met, I am even more mad and stupid, because I love you anyway. I do not know why. I do not want to. I know you will not love me back.”

“Beau, I --”

“ _No_ ,” Beau interrupts. “ _I_ am talking. You will let me talk. But I cannot make those feelings go away, even though I try and try, because I am stupid and mad and masochistic. And I _should_ ‘ate you, but instead I love you, and I ‘ate _myself_ for that.”

You open your mouth slightly. _Please don’t hate yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong. I love you, too, please, **please** try to understand --_ You close your mouth again.

Instead of speaking, you pull Beau into your arms, your hold so light, as if you’re afraid you’ll break him if you’re even a little bit rough. You place a soft kiss to the top of his head.

“Riley?” Beau whispers, suddenly unsure, unused to being touched so gently.

You’re silent for a very long time before you whisper, “There’s something I have to tell you. You deserve to know why I’ve been acting the way I have.”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. After a few very long moments of silence, you try to speak.

 

**Twenty-Six.**

It’s been fifteen minutes and you still haven’t said a word. Beau stays silent, still wrapped in your arms, small hands gripping your forearm, cold nose buried in the crook of your elbow.

“I don’t know if I can talk about this while I’m sober,” you finally whisper honestly.

“Try,” Beau says. “All I ‘ave ‘ere is cocaine and ‘eroin, and neither of those will ‘elp. I will listen. I will not interrupt.”

You close your eyes. Your head is pounding and your jaw hurts like mad, your whole body aching with stress. “I,” you start, but your voice catches and you trail off. “I know you hate the smell, but d’you mind if I smoke inside, just this once?” You need something, _anything_ to keep your mind off what you’re about to say, even if it’s just a nervous habit that won’t get you high. “Please.” Your voice cracks again, your throat already sore with tension.

“This once,” Beau says softly.

 

**Twenty-Seven.**

Your hands shake so badly you can’t get the match to light properly. You hope Beau mistakes it for withdrawal, but he isn’t that stupid. Your teeth clench down on the cigarette between your lips for just a moment before you loosen your jaw, not wanting to break it. It’s the only one left in the flat.

“’Ere,” Beau says, gently taking your hands in his own. He takes the matchbook, lighting one on the first go. You lean in, letting him light it for you. You take a deep drag, hold it, turn your head away from Beau and let out a very, very slow exhale. Your hands are still shaking.

“Thanks,” you whisper. “’I’ll do the sheets and clean the carpet to get the smell out.” Your voice is shaking just as badly as your hands. “If you need me to, I’ll get new pillows. I know how much you hate the smell. I --”

You stop when Beau whispers your name. You didn’t know he could even use such a gentle tone, but especially when speaking to you.

The room shadows over, clouds outside blocking what little of the sun makes it past the curtains. A very soft _tap-tap-tap_ against the window.

“It always rains too bloody much,” you whisper.

You close your eyes again.

_A flash of blond hair, bright blue eyes and a smile so wide as blue and black trainers kick through the puddles, the hems of slightly too long indigo jeans gone nearly black from the wet, warm skin against cold, rain-slicked fingers and—_

Your eyes shoot open again, your breath catching painfully in your throat, heart stopping and starting and stopping haphazard and—

_Happy birthday, Alex._

_The best one ever._

_Next year it’ll be even better—_

But there will be no next year or next week or even a tomorrow or—

“I can’t do this,” you gasp, your voice suddenly a near shout, breaking the gentleness of your whispers. Beau starts and jerks back, but his hands stay tight on your arm.

“Riley, what --”

“I can’t do this,” you repeat. You shrug his hands off of you and bury your face in your hands. The cigarette tight between your teeth juts out between the heels of your hands. Beau gently curls his fingers around your palms and tugs. You tug back, keeping them in place.

“Don’t look at me,” you say. “It was my fault. It was my --“

“ _What_ was?” Beau asks. He tugs again, and this time you let your hands go with his. He lets your left go and wipes at your face, and that’s when you realize you’re crying.

“He killed himself,” you sob. “He’s dead. And it’s my fault.”

Beau’s hand tightens on yours and he curls his fingers around the back of your neck, weaving them in your hair. It’s too awkward an angle to rest his forehead against yours, so he rests his head on your shoulder, the most innocent he’s ever touched you.

“Who?” Beau asks.

You cover your eyes with your free hand and bite down harder on the cigarette between your teeth. You pinch your nose. You sob once, hard and dry.

“Alex,” you answer.

“Who is --”

“He’s… he _was_ my boyfriend,” you finally manage.

Beau inhales sharply through his teeth, as if he finally understands everything. Maybe that was enough. Maybe you don’t need to say anymore.

“When?” Beau asks.

“Late last year,” you say. _November 30, 1993._ You’ll never forget that date. Never.

“So, recently,” Beau whispers. His voice is gentle, understanding. More than you’d expected from him.

“Yeah.” You sob again, and this one is much more wet. You take a shaky drag off your cigarette and then stub it out on the worn carpet to finish later. You’ll burn yourself at this rate.

Beau doesn’t even chastise you for not getting up to find an ashtray.

 

**Twenty-Eight.**

It takes hours. The sun sets. The room is dark. Neither of you get up to turn on the light. You both sit there in darkness and shadow, the only light from the streetlamps outside falling in hazy yellow streaks through the curtains. Sometimes the light catches Beau’s hair, or his eyes, and it hurts.

But finally he gets you to start from the beginning. Not the _beginning_ beginning. The beginning of the end. The abuse. The lies. The hiding. The helplessness. It was all right there in front of you, but you didn’t figure it out until it was too late.

“He needed me,” you whisper. “He needed me and I wasn’t there.”

“Did ‘e ask you to be?”

“He shouldn’t have had to. I should have known.”

“’Ow?”

You look up at Beau, ready for a fight, but his face is so soft in the dark room, his mouth turned down and his brows drawn. Your self-blame is hurting him. But not as much as it hurts you.

“Riley, you are not a mind reader. Trust me.” He offers you a ghost of a smile, but it fades when you don’t react to his joke. “You knew something was wrong and you tried so hard to be there. But if ‘e wasn’t willing to talk to you, ‘ow could you ‘ave known what ‘e was thinking?”

This isn’t what you were expecting at all. You weren’t expecting mockery, not exactly. Maybe derision.

You think you love Beau, but really, you don’t even know him at all. You’d never have expected such gentleness, such _tenderness_. It’s almost harder, because now you can’t react with anger.

If you weren’t willing to talk to him, how could you have known what he was thinking?

 

**Twenty-Nine**

You and Beau fall asleep in bed together for the first time since you’ve known each other. He’s behind you, nose in your neck, hand on your hip, like he’s trying to protect you. There wasn’t a single innuendo before he dozed off, which was almost more disconcerting than if there had been. But then, that would have been unbearably crass, even for him.

He keeps pulling closer, closer, in his sleep, snuggling up behind you like he’s trying to sink inside you. You haven’t been this close to another person since Alex died.

And the guilt tears you up inside.

 

**Thirty**

When you wake up, Beau is still curled up behind you, snuggled close. But his breathing is a little more shallow and uneven, so you know he’s awake.

“Beau?”

“Mm?”

“I think I need to leave.”

“What?”

Beau sits up, resting on his elbow as he leans over you. “What do you mean?” he clarifies.

“I need to leave London. Maybe England altogether.”

He stills behind you. His hand tightens on your side.

“What?” It’s just a breath, terrified.

“He’s everywhere, Beau,” you say. “I’ll never be able to get over it if I stay.”

“Where will you go?”

“Probably the U.S., to live with my brother.” You wipe at your nose and close your eyes when he gasps.

“I…” Beau starts. “I can’t go with you. You know that, right?”

You swallow hard. “Yeah,” you say. “I know.”

 

**Thirty-One**

Even though he can’t go with you, Beau helps you plan. He buys your plane ticket, makes sure your passport is up to date, makes all the calls you have to but can’t because you’re staring blankly at the wall.

He’s not coming with you. Maybe you’ll email. But you might never see each other again.

Beau has to know that, but he’s doing this for you anyway, because it’s what’s best.

One day when he’s on the phone, barefoot and clad only in pajama bottoms, you walk up behind him and wrap you arms around his waist. He pulls away, leaving your hands hanging stupidly in the air.

“Beau?”

He covers the receiver of the phone and says, “It will just make it ‘arder for both of us when you leave.”

And it hurts, oh, god, it hurts, but you know he’s right.

 

**Thirty-Two**

Beau busses with you to the train that will take you to the airport. He stays with you at the station. When they call for your train to board, Beau hugs you like he’s never going to see you again, and for all you know, that may be true.

“Beau, I l --”

“Don’t you dare, Riley Ackart,” he hisses through his teeth. “Not now. Don’t you dare.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Then… goodbye, Beau. You’ll keep in touch, yeah?”

“If you do.”

“I will. Promise. Thank you for everything.”

“Yeah, well… someone ‘ad to take care of your ‘opeless arse.”

You chuckle and bury your nose in his hair. “I guess that’s going to be my brother’s job, now.”

“I guess so.”

They call for the final boarding, and you finally have to let go of him. It hurts, but it would hurt more to stay.

You manage to keep it together as you board, and even as you find a seat by a window you can see Beau from. But as the train pulls away, you can see Beau bury his face in his hands, and the tears start, and you cry, and you cry, and you cry.

 

**Thirty-Three**

Everything in the States is so much _bigger_. The cars, the roads, the drinks, the meals. You ask for a large drink at the McDonald’s kiosk across from customs while you wait for your brother to come meet you, because that’s what you always ordered at home. It’s almost bigger than you are.

You guess London isn’t your home anymore. Denver, Colorado is, now.

Just as you turn around you hear someone call your name. You glance around, and when you find Daryl, he’s across the way with his back to you.

He helps you take your luggage out through the airport and down to the baggage claim, where you can get the rest of it.

“Do you have any more coming?” Daryl asks.

“Not after this,” you say softly. You only just remember you never told Poppy you were leaving. She’s going to call the number you always used and Beau’s going to have to tell her. God, you’re an asshole.

Daryl’s face softens. You gather your luggage and take it to the car. He helps you load it up and says, “I’ll take the cart back,” he says. His speech is a weird half-English, half-American hybrid, and it’s disconcerting.

You get in the car. He’s the only one that came. His wife is probably at work, and you remember, Americans don’t get as much maternity leave as the English do. Is the baby with a sitter?

You lean your head against the window and watch the cars go by as you wait for your brother, and you pray to the god you don’t believe exists that this was the right decision.


End file.
